


Lighting the Match

by draculard



Series: Comfortween [20]
Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Established Relationship, Extremely Dubious Consent, Force Choking (Star Wars), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inappropriate Use of the Force, M/M, Manipulation, Pre-Endor AU, Psychological Trauma, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Tactics but sexy and also nonconsensual, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27238750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: When the Emperor calls Thrawn back from the Unknown Regions to deal with the Rebel Alliance prior to the Battle of Endor, Vader suddenly finds himself in the middle of a power struggle he didn't account for.And Thrawn finds himself playing with fire.
Relationships: Gilad Pellaeon/Thrawn | Mitth’raw’nuruodo, Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Darth Vader
Series: Comfortween [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946224
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47
Collections: Comfortween 2020





	Lighting the Match

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Игра с огнём](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26841277) by [Mephisto_in_Onyx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mephisto_in_Onyx/pseuds/Mephisto_in_Onyx). 



> This is based on Mephisto_In_Onyx's (infinitely superior) fic Playing With Fire, which shows the noncon between Vader and Thrawn in full. You could read this as a remix or sort of a sequel, since it picks up right where the noncon left off.

When it was all said and done, Thrawn cleaned himself up with one of his own discarded socks. He wiped the cum off his stomach and tended to the mix of blood and semen between his legs without expression, and without climbing down from the conference room table. In full view of Vader, he stopped, turned the sock inside-out, and applied it between his legs again to soak up the blood.

Briefly, his eyes flickered up, cold and unbothered. There were tears drying on his face, but he seemed uncognizant of them — or perhaps unashamed. 

Vader met Thrawn’s eyes for a moment. When he’d been sunk deep inside Thrawn just a few minutes ago — when he’d used the Force to constrict Thrawn’s breathing and hold him still — he’d been able to read the Grand Admiral’s alien emotions with something almost like clarity. Now, all he could tell was that Thrawn was exhausted — that despite the torture he’d just been put through, he was mere seconds from falling asleep.

He waved his hand and the rest of Thrawn’s uniform floated off the ground, landing over his lap on the table. 

“Get up,” Vader told him.

For a moment, Thrawn didn’t move. He picked through his uniform items listlessly until he found his undershirt, slipping it on over his head with stiff movements. Next was his underwear; he slid off the edge of the table, stepping into the briefs gingerly and wincing when the tight-fitting fabric brushed against his bruised testicles. 

“I am not a patient man, Admiral,” Vader reminded him.

To his amazement, Thrawn paused midway through reaching for his trousers and turned to Vader with a dry smile. The sense of amusement coming from him was faint but genuine.

“I’m aware,” Thrawn said. His voice was raw, both from his windpipe being squeezed closed so many times in one day and from the harsh sobs Vader had pulled from him mere minutes before. But Thrawn didn’t seem bothered by the sound of his own voice.

And he didn’t speed up at all. 

He pulled his tunic and trousers on with the same slow, delicate movements as before. Only when he sat down to put on his boots — discarding the single clean sock — did he speak again. 

“Article 130 of the Imperial Penal Code,” he said almost conversationally. 

Vader snorted, a sound his vocorder didn’t bother to broadcast. 

“Rape,” Thrawn continued, tugging the laces of his boots tight. “And Article 133, Attack on a Superior Officer. That’s more interesting, isn’t it? As of two hours ago, I _am_ your commanding officer, after all. That makes your assault on me punishable by death, Lord Vader.”

Inside his helmet, Vader’s scarred upper lip curled. “And to whom will you report this crime?” he said sardonically. 

Thrawn glanced up at Vader, his face unreadable as he tucked his laces into his boots. He didn't seem at all fazed by Vader's amusement, and at that realization, a cold fist squeezed around Vader’s chest. There was only one person Thrawn _could_ report this to — the Emperor — and just an hour ago, Vader would have dismissed the idea entirely. He’d have thought Thrawn too proud to ever admit what Vader had done to him. But now, looking at Thrawn’s cold face and sharp eyes, Vader wasn’t so sure.

His hand twitched. Thrawn saw it.

“I’m not threatening you, Lord Vader,” he said mildly, returning his attention to his boot laces. “I’m offering you a deal, so don’t rush to choke me.”

The feeling in Vader’s chest wouldn’t go away. What was it, exactly? Fear? 

“I think we can come to an agreement here,” Thrawn said, adjusting the side-seam on his trousers. “Something mutually beneficial.”

He rose slowly but gracefully, using the edge of the table for support. His fingers came down dangerously close to a smear of dried blood and cum. 

“How many troops have you killed this month, Lord Vader?” Thrawn asked, straightening to his full height.

For a long moment, Vader said nothing. He couldn’t say for certain how many Imperial men he’d killed; he didn’t keep count. Even before turning to the Dark Side — even before the incidents at the Jedi Temple and Mustafar — he’d stopped counting. There was no reason to keep a tally, then or now; no one doubted a Jedi's decisions, and nobody looked twice at the execution of an incompetent officer.

Except for Thrawn. For some reason, Thrawn cared. He was a strange man, Palpatine’s favorite Grand Admiral. Too ethical and scrupulous for a high-ranking officer — and yet it was he who now commanded the Imperial Navy, he who Palpatine hoped would lead them to victory at Endor. 

Thrawn was watching him, waiting patiently for Vader to speak. Somehow, when Vader looked back at him, Thrawn knew no answer was forthcoming.

“Four,” he told Vader. “I counted for you. You killed two officers, one technician, and a stormtrooper on the Executor’s bridge.”

It seemed an awfully low amount to Vader.

“I know their names,” Thrawn continued, adjusting his tunic. “But you don’t need them. I have an offer for you. You stop killing and maiming my subordinates and you do not interfere with me — in any way — during my pursuits to suppress the Rebellion. In return, I shall make it my personal concern that your son and daughter survive the defeat of the Alliance.”

A cold pit opened up in Vader's stomach. To hear Luke and Leia acknowledged aloud, and by somebody other than the Emperor... Vader didn’t ask him how he knew. His hands — one of them still smeared with Thrawn’s blood and saliva — curled into fists at his sides.

“I know you do not kill in a fit of rage,” Thrawn said. He took a seat in the same office chair where Vader had first choked him an hour before and rifled through his leather bag. Vader watched as he removed a flask of alcohol and took a sip, his tongue visible for just a moment as a vivid spark of purple inside his mouth. “It is not a matter of control or lack thereof. Your violence against me was structured according to the same principle — you plan reprisals; you make rational decisions to harm." His eyes flashed. "You will not make such decisions again, Lord Vader. Leave the courts and executions of the Navy to me.”

Vader saw what Thrawn was leading him to. It seemed like a trap — if he could not inspire fear in Imperial troops, he would lose his power over them. 

“The Dark Side relishes executions,” he said. “It requires victims.”

“Imperial victims?” said Thrawn sharply. He raised an eyebrow at Vader and took another drink from the flask. “Take as many Rebels as you like, Lord Vader. But you are not to touch one more Imperial.” He waved off Vader’s protest before it could even begin. “Yes, yes, another order from me to you — and it won’t be the last. I know you are capable of refraining from murder, Lord Vader. With me, for example, you have replaced murder with simple violence — thus I have faith you can replace violence with something else. Most importantly, leave my people unharmed. Attack the walls with your lightsaber, if you wish; just don’t hurt the staff.”

After a moment of sipping from his flask, Thrawn turned to his datapad and added as an afterthought, “Nor the ships. They’re too expensive.”

Vader imagined how a Dark Lord of the Sith would look, destroying the walls with his lightsaber in a fit of anger. He almost laughed.

“That won’t be enough, Thrawn,” he said. “Sooner or later, darkness takes its toll.”

“Then let it take what is given voluntarily.”

Vader’s confusion must have shown on his mask somehow. After a moment, leaning back in his seat and switching off his datapad, Thrawn explained. 

“Me,” he said simply. “You can take me, as you have already done. Exercise your frustrations; do whatever you like. This is part of the deal.”

The deal. Luke and Leia both alive, in exchange for…

Vader's fists tightened. He spoke slowly, levelly.

“I will not stop you,” he said, “from suppressing the Rebellion or saving the galaxy—” For the Force told him that, whether he said it aloud or not, whether he shared his true goals with Vader or not, this was exactly what Thrawn intended to do. “—and I will not execute your subordinates.”

“Any military or personnel,” Thrawn clarified. “You will not harm anyone who is not an enemy, specifically a Rebel. Do not kill or maim peaceful, law-abiding citizens. Do not interfere with my work nor compel others to do so. I will not tolerate it if you search for verbal loopholes, Lord Vader. This deal ends the moment you do.”

“As you said,” Vader agreed. “In exchange, you will make arrangements to see that my children are kept alive after the Rebels are defeated. And you provide yourself … to relieve stress.”

“On the condition that you don’t kill me, of course,” said Thrawn, templing his fingers. “And do not cripple me, or harm me physically or mentally to such an extent that I cannot tend to my duties in full. Whatever you do … it shouldn’t be worse…” His eyebrows furrowed. “...than what just happened.”

Thrawn didn’t avert his gaze as he hesitated. If anything, his eyes sought out Vader’s, boring into his helmet with a cold fury. Why would Thrawn give himself such a raw deal when specifying the conditions? Vader wondered. Why not stipulate that Vader couldn’t hurt him _at all?_ Shouldn’t Thrawn have at least tried to bargain for something gentler, something less traumatic, than what Vader had just forced him through?

Unless…

Vader thought of how Thrawn’s cock had twitched and hardened when Vader tightened his prosthetic fist around his balls — how he'd hissed and groaned when Vader thrust into him, how he'd flushed when Vader held him down and manipulated his limbs against his will — how he’d climaxed at the exact moment that the invisible hand of the Force closed around his throat.

Unless the violence was, for Thrawn, part of the appeal.

“Understood,” Vader said.

He could break Thrawn calmly and methodically, and the Chiss would never see it creeping up on him. He would cherish his sarcasm and pride to the very end, imagining that these things made him above what was happening to him — that these things somehow negated the rape, or made it less violating, less impactful. 

“Wonderful,” said Thrawn drily. “At least we have agreed on something.”

He stood to leave, but he only made it one step before pain contorted his face and he stopped in his tracks, staggering slightly as he came to a halt. His hand shot out by reflex, looking for support, and it landed in a sticky mix of blood and cum on the conference table. In his pain, Thrawn didn’t seem to notice. He scrunched his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, and then abruptly smoothed his features into a neutral expression.

Lowly, in a conversational tone, he said, “See, Vader? This interferes with my work. You’ve hurt me somewhere.”

“Have I?” said Vader, darkly amused.

“It hurts to walk,” said Thrawn, his voice a little more sharp now. “Do not do it again.”

With the Force, Vader reached out to Thrawn, tracking the pain to its source. It was the ball and socket joint of his right hip, where Vader’s prosthetic hand had held him down. How many small injuries like this had Vader healed during the Clone Wars? In the end — skin and eyes aside — it seemed the Grand Admiral was more human than he let on. Just as fragile as a human. Just as breakable.

“Lean on me, Admiral,” Vader said, stepping forward.

Thrawn froze, his eyes flickering over Vader’s helmet in something like alarm. But after a moment’s hesitation, he did as he was told, putting one hand on Vader’s shoulder and letting him take his weight. They were closer in height than Vader had realized — and up close, he realized they weren’t so far apart in age, either. 

He ran his hand over Thrawn’s right hip and thigh, letting the Force flow through him.

“Try it,” he said.

Tentatively, Thrawn took a step away from Vader. His stride grew longer a moment after that and he paced around the table without limping. 

“Very well,” he said finally, his voice clipped and professional again. “You can do that, if you wish — break, then heal. But you will not do anything you cannot fix.”

Vader inclined his head. Physically, that was fine, but mentally? How long would it be before Thrawn dropped his sardonic attitude and accepted that this situation was beyond his control?

As if he could read his thoughts, Thrawn gave Vader a thin smile that was more like a sneer. He stepped past Vader, grabbing his datapad on his way to the door.

“I’ll let you know when I’m in need of your particular talents,” he said. 

Vader turned to watch him go. He waited until Thrawn was at the door to speak.

“And I’ll tell you when I’m in need of yours,” he said. 

Thrawn froze in the doorway with his hand upon the latch. His head was bowed; Vader could not see his face.

He left without another word.

* * *

Gilad was already in bed when he heard the door to his quarters open. He raised his head off the pillow, peering through the darkness and listening to the sounds from the other room. He heard Thrawn set his datapad down — heard him sigh — heard him walk softly to the bedroom.

Thrawn paused in the doorway, his glowing red eyes fixed on Gilad.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice impossible to read — but certainly not pleased, Gilad noted with some surprise; certainly not warm, in any capacity of the word. Gilad sat up a little, squinting at Thrawn; he couldn’t help but interpret the lack of a positive tone as an automatic negative.

“You’re late,” he responded.

For a moment, although it made no sense, he thought Thrawn was going to turn around and leave because of this simple remark — but in the end, he didn’t. He stepped inside, letting the doors slide shut behind him, and walked past Gilad’s bed to the small, utilitarian desk nearby. As he passed, Gilad got a whiff of something — sweat and alcohol and something almost ammoniac that he couldn’t identify. It was faint, and it reminded him of something — either urine or semen, he decided, but neither of those made any sense. He sat up straighter, squinting at Thrawn in the dark.

Sitting on Gilad’s office chair, Thrawn leaned forward and removed his boots, pulling his pale blue feet out of the white leather. 

“What happened to your socks?” Gilad asked, eyes narrowing.

Thrawn glanced at him only briefly. “Go to sleep, Gilad,” he said. 

“You don’t wear socks?” said Gilad, baffled. There had to be no greater torment than wearing stiff Imperial leather boots without socks. But even before Thrawn gave him an exasperated look, he realized he'd made a false conclusion — Thrawn did, of course, wear socks. He’d seen Thrawn get dressed before, after all, and knew he had a fully-stocked sock drawer. 

But then why...?

Thrawn stood, shucking his tunic off and letting it hang on the back of Gilad’s chair. He stopped by the bed on the way to the fresher, resting his palm — cool and dry — against Gilad’s forehead, as if to comfort or reassure him. 

Gilad recognized the smell now. Up close like this, it was unmistakable. His face went blank as Thrawn touched him, unable to process what his nose was telling him. Thrawn smelled of sex. Meaning he wasn’t late because of his meeting with the Emperor and Lord Vader — he was late because he’d been…

“I’m going to take a shower,” Thrawn told him, his voice soft. “Don’t wait for me. You need your sleep.”

Gilad said nothing. He lay awake after Thrawn left, staring at the ceiling blindly and listening to the shower run. It ran for only five minutes before it stopped abruptly, and then Gilad heard the gush of a faucet and knew Thrawn had rinsed himself off and switched over to a bath. He wasn’t sure Thrawn had _ever_ taken a bath before aboard the Chimaera, not while the two of them were together. He didn’t want to consider all the potential reasons why he might be taking one now.

Thrawn had fucked somebody else. 

This information spiraled through Gilad’s mind unstoppably, repeating itself over and over again. A little voice piped up every now and then, reminding Gilad that they’d never had a real discussion about this — their relationship — that they’d never defined boundaries or declared themselves exclusive. He’d just assumed … but perhaps Thrawn hadn’t assumed the same thing; perhaps he thought this was acceptable. Perhaps, in his culture, it was.

It didn’t stop a fiery pit of anger and distress from forming in Gilad’s stomach. He took a deep breath and threw the blankets off him, knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he didn’t address this now. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood.

He didn’t bother knocking.

The door to the fresher slid open. In the bathtub, Thrawn sat up at once with a splash of water that cascaded over the side of the tub, his eyebrows raised as he looked at Gilad. Whatever he saw in Gilad’s face must have warned him; his own face became pinched and closed off, and he looked away. Slowly, he lowered himself back down into the tub, either relaxing or trying to hide.

If he was trying to hide, it was too late. Gilad had already seen the bruises.

“Thrawn,” he said softly, stepping inside and closing the door. “What the hell happened today?”

Thrawn said nothing. He watched, eyes glittering — with irritation? with caution? with humor? it was impossible to tell — as Gilad approached the tub and wiped the water off the edge with his palm before taking a seat. Bruises, fresh and livid, dotted Thrawn’s body from his throat all the way down to his thighs. That was where the worst of it was centered — on his thighs, yes, but also on his hips, and his cock was soft but still purple, the same color it became when Thrawn was aroused — and his balls, too, were purple, Gilad noticed, even though he’d never seen them that color before. 

He raked his gaze up Thrawn’s naked body to meet his eyes.

“What happened?” he asked again.

Thrawn’s eyelids shifted further down, hooding his eyes. The corner of his lips tugged up in a humorless smile.

“I, ah, fell into a doorknob,” he said. 

Gilad’s face twisted against his will, forming a scowl. He watched Thrawn’s smirk fade and his eyes widen into a look of something almost like alarm at Gilad’s reaction. Sitting up a bit, Thrawn lifted his hand and rested it on Gilad’s forearm.

“Don’t take it so _seriously_ , Gilad,” he said. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Gilad twisted his arm around, catching Thrawn’s hand in his own. He felt as though his jaw was locked in place, he was clenching it so hard.

“Who did this to you?” he asked. Then, eyes flickering back down to the dark bruises between Thrawn’s legs, he couldn’t help but add, “Have you seen someone? Sick bay? Or a medical droid?”

With effort, Thrawn tugged his hand out of Gilad’s grip. “Peace, Gilad,” he said. “I’m fine, truly.”

Gilad studied him for a moment; it wasn’t that he was unwilling to believe Thrawn. It was that he was _incapable_ of believing him. After a moment, he moved his hand down into the tub, reaching for Thrawn’s bruised cock, and Thrawn kept a straight, unbothered face, letting him get almost close enough to touch it. Then, with an involuntary flinch, Thrawn sat up and covered himself, blocking Gilad’s hand.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

Gilad drew back. “Why not?” he asked, hearing the challenge in his own voice. “Because it hurts?”

Thrawn shot him a dirty glare.

“But you said you were fine,” Gilad continued, crossing his arms. “So why _shouldn't_ I touch you there?”

Thrawn studied him for a moment, his own face giving nothing away. Then he sat back, uncovering himself and spreading his legs as much as the narrow tub would allow.

“Fine,” he said. “If you want to touch, then do so. But I’m asking you not to, Gilad, and I’d prefer if you didn’t feign ignorance as to why. I’m not in the mood to play games tonight.”

Stung, Gilad could think of nothing to say. Thrawn maintained his position for a moment longer, raising his eyebrow in a cold invitation; when Gilad only shook his head silently, Thrawn closed his legs again. His thighs were trembling so minutely it was barely visible; he avoided Gilad’s eyes.

“Who did this to you?” Gilad asked again.

A muscle tightened in Thrawn’s jaw. He raised his head and met Gilad’s gaze with a ferocity that bordered almost on hatred.

“Nobody did this to me,” he said, his voice tight. “I am not an inanimate object, Gilad. I don’t have things done to me; I do things _with_ people.” He sucked his teeth, the anger on his face plain to see, and then kept speaking as though he couldn’t stop himself. “It was consensual. You can lay your fantasies of heroic rescue to rest; I’m fine.”

Gilad was quiet for a moment. He realized he’d never seen Thrawn lie before; was it only wishful thinking that made him think _this_ was a lie? Or did he truly see something in Thrawn’s face — something so subtle that he couldn’t name it, but instinctively noticed and categorized — that told him Thrawn wasn’t telling the truth?

It all slotted together in his mind. Thrawn had been raped, that much was clear even if he didn’t want to admit it — and there were only two people Gilad knew of who could conceivably rape Thrawn and get away with it: the Emperor himself and his righthand man, Darth Vader. And now, clearly, Thrawn was coping with it by rearranging things in his mind — convincing himself he hadn’t been taken advantage of or made vulnerable — convincing himself that he’d somehow come out of this encounter with the upper hand. 

And it was Thrawn, so maybe — _maybe_ — he really had. But that wasn’t the important part, Gilad realized. The important part was that Thrawn had been raped — raped with a violence that perhaps qualified as torture — and now he wanted nothing more than to sweep it under the rug, to pretend as much as possible that everything was normal.

With a sigh, Gilad took Thrawn’s hand and held it to his lips. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, heavily, Gilad forced himself to say, “Should I be worried?” When Thrawn’s face spasmed and his fingers tightened around his, Gilad added, “About the competition?”

The tension on Thrawn’s face softened into relief.

“It’s no competition, Gilad,” he said, not meeting Gilad’s eyes. “It’s purely a political match. That’s all.”

 _A political match,_ he said — and since when did Thrawn play politics? Gilad eyed him for a long moment, running his thumb over the back of Thrawn’s hand. 

“It will happen again?” he asked, avoiding Thrawn's eyes.

Thrawn glanced down at the bathwater, drawing in a slow breath. His expression didn’t change; absently, he returned Gilad’s show of affection with a light squeeze of the hand. 

“It will happen again,” he said. His eyes drifted over the bruises on his thighs, taking them in expressionlessly before shifting back to Gilad’s face. He squeezed Gilad’s hand again. “It bothers you.”

Gilad didn’t deny it.

“I will make no requirements of you,” Thrawn continued, his voice soft; there was no hint of sadness in his tone, but Gilad suspected it had been deliberately eradicated. Or more likely, Thrawn was saying this precisely because he knew it would convince Gilad to stay with him, and there was no hint of sadness because he knew their relationship was in no real danger.

“I know,” Gilad said, and Thrawn squeezed his hand again before letting it drop.

“You think I’m manipulating you,” he said neutrally, without seeming to take offense. Gilad couldn’t help but flush. “I am,” Thrawn continued without shame. “I would rather you stay. But genuinely, Gilad, I will not punish you if you leave; there will be no retribution on my part. You know that.”

“Of course I do,” Gilad scoffed. When Thrawn raised an eyebrow, he shrugged and said, “Retribution for personal relationships is against the Imperial Military Code.”

Thrawn’s lips twitched. The sight of that — an almost-smile — brought a sense of relief to Gilad, but only slightly. He took a deep breath, feeling somewhat raw, and settled his hands on the edge of the tub.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, afraid to meet Thrawn’s eyes. “You won’t drop the … political match, I presume? Under any circumstances?”

There was a long pause before Thrawn answered.

“No,” he said, his voice sounding odd. Gilad sneaked a glance at him and saw that Thrawn’s eyes were far away, his expression troubled. “No foreseeable circumstances,” he amended eventually. "It is, at present, the wisest choice, in terms of tactics."

“Then what can I do to help?” asked Gilad, unwilling to show how much this answer bothered him.

“Show no anger,” said Thrawn at once, his voice toneless, his eyes fixed absently on the wall.

Gilad deflated instantly. “I’m not angry with—”

“Show no anger to _him_ ,” Thrawn clarified, his gaze piercing Gilad. “You aren’t unintelligent. You know who he is. Do not endanger yourself by showing your displeasure, and you will make my own situation infinitely easier to bear.”

Gilad swallowed hard. He blinked rapidly, forced himself to nod. When Thrawn only continued to stare at him with those sharp, expectant eyes, he schooled his expression and nodded again, more confidently this time. 

“In return,” said Thrawn, his voice softening, “I will do my best to hide all evidence of this affair from now on, Gilad. I do not wish to cause you further distress; I suspect this is the only tool I have at my disposal to lessen your—”

“Talk to me,” said Gilad roughly. He reached for Thrawn’s hand again by reflex, but stopped himself from grabbing it; Thrawn’s fingers were clasped on the edge of the tub, his grip tight and his face hard; he gave every indication that comfort would be resented, not welcomed.

“I am talking to you now,” said Thrawn, his voice cool.

“In the future,” said Gilad, shaking his head. He glared back at Thrawn, meeting his harsh gaze with one of his own. “Whenever he — whenever the two of you meet — just don’t hide it from me. Let me help.”

When Thrawn looked like he might argue, Gilad rushed on.

“I’m an Imperial captain,” he said, hardening his voice until it attained some of the gruffness he used on the bridge. “I like to _work_ , Thrawn. I like to have a purpose. Don’t make me feel useless here, or I—”

His throat tightened. His words failed.

“Or you’ll leave me,” said Thrawn flatly.

“Or I’ll go insane,” Gilad corrected him. 

They stared at each other for a long time, Gilad glaring and Thrawn’s hard expression cracking — but into what, Gilad couldn’t tell. He thought Thrawn would argue with him or try to manipulate him again — or worse, decide he wasn’t worth the effort of so many arguments and manipulations.

But instead, without a change in expression, Thrawn reached up and closed his fingers around Gilad’s sleeve, tugging gently.

“Sit over here,” he murmured.

Gilad slid down to the other end of the tub and swiveled around to face the other way. He could no longer see Thrawn’s face — only the bruises on his back and the damp sweep of his blue-black hair. He watched as Thrawn slid farther down in the tub, drawing his knees up and dipping his head under the water. He stayed there a moment, his eyes closed, his face placid and undisturbed, and then he surfaced again, blinking stray drops of water out of his glowing eyes.

Gilad stared down at him silently, his heart in his throat. Their eyes locked, Thrawn’s burning into his, a smile — amused? affectionate? sad? knowing? — tugging at his lips.

“Well?” said Thrawn, his hands resting on his abdomen and chest.

Gilad swallowed. “Well?”

Quietly, Thrawn indicated the soap, resting right against Gilad’s knee. When Gilad looked back at him questioningly, that smile was still on his lips, softer and easier to read.

“Make yourself useful,” Thrawn said.


End file.
